The Fear

It was my brother who taught me The Fear.

We learn lots of things from our families–guilt, humility, empathy, forgiveness. If we are lucky, these lessons stay with us into adulthood, weaved into our consciousness as positive personality traits that make us strong, sensitive, kind and productive people.

My childhood was full of valuable lessons. My mother taught me that all things pass, the good and the bad. “All good things must come to an end,” she would say as I argued for one more swim in the lake as the summer sky turned gray. “This too must pass,” she would whisper as I cried over the pain of the chicken pox, unrequited adolescent love.

My father taught me to believe in myself and to trust my instincts. “Don’t listen to people who tell you what you can’t do,” he would say, “only you can truly know what you are capable of.”

I was blessed with phenomenal parents, and at the age of 34, I still call on their wisdom. But it was my brother who taught me one of the most valuable life lessons. It was my brother who taught me The Fear.

When I was in middle school, he made up a game he called “Pressure Point Man.” It pretty much involved him waking me on weekend mornings by standing in the doorway of my room with his index finger poised in the air, raising his arm up and down while making a buzzing robot noise.

“I—T--’S P—R—E—SS--URE P-OIN--T M—AN,” he’d say in a deep drawn-out voice, lifting his arm up, “zzzzzzzzzz,” and down, “zzzzzzz.” Then he’d pounce on me and jam his index finger in-between the joints of my arms and legs until I sprang from the bed and ran for cover.

It didn’t take long before all he had to do was look at me and make the “zzzzzzzzz” noise or raise an index finger and bend it up, “chick chick,” and down, “chick chick,” and I’d start moving fast, an awkward pre-adolescent Pavlov’s dog.

As big brothers go, he wasn’t so bad. He had some redeeming qualities. He always gave it to me straight. “Nik,” he’d say, “Teenage boys are disgusting. Don’t trust them.” “Don’t eat the icicles off of the back porch.” “If you wear those shoes, people will think you’re a slut.”

And fear, he told me, only serves a purpose if there is something to be afraid of. “What are you scared of?, ” he’d ask, as I stood perched at the loading point of a terrifying roller coaster I was just tall enough on my tippy-toes to ride, or squirming in my seat before having to go onstage in front of hundreds of people in my puffy-sleeved, hideously pink “achievement” pageant dress. I would mutter something about breaking my legs, falling on my face, freezing and looking like an idiot. “That’s not going to happen,” he’d say. “Stop being a baby and do it.”

He was always pushing me into something outside of my comfort zone.

“Hey, Nik, get in the cabinet. I’ll spin you around on the Lazy Susan.”

“Okay,” I’d squeak out.

“Hey, Nik, let’s ride the snow sleds down the basement stairs.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Nik, let’s try a black diamond sky trail next. I hear the moguls are the size of Volkswagens.”

“Okay.”

“Hey Nik, let’s go to Candlewood Lake and jump off of ‘Chicken Rock’.”

“Um, okay.”

I remember very clearly the pang of fear as I stood perched at the edge of the gnarled rock. I hesitated and felt his hands on my back pushing me out. “JUMP,” he yelled in my ear and my body reacted, catapulting itself over the long jagged edge, falling, flailing toward the dark rolling water, the splash and the rush of adrenalin as I sprang to the surface and filled my lungs with panicked gasps of air. This was what it felt like on the other side of The Fear–alive, confident and strong.

My brother hasn’t pushed me down the basement stairs on a sled in a long time. But what he taught me about fear has stayed with me. The pang of anxiety before a job interview, the last edits of a book manuscript before it goes to the printer–my naked thoughts and feelings, probable errors and all–imprinted in permanent ink for all to peruse.

Like most people, I am afraid of many things.

Often that familiar pang of fear inspires us to lock our doors at night; slow down and choose our words carefully with our bosses and our spouse; drive carefully on slippery windy roads–all helpful. Sometimes, what we really need is a ride around the Lazy Susan (watch your fingers!) The trick is to know the difference.

Just this fall, I was visiting my family in Connecticut. The cousins were all piled into one of their bedrooms watching Disney’s Toy Story. My sweet, pretty 22-year-old cousin turned to me with a crooked smile, raised her index finger and said, “Hey, Nik, remember when your brother use to do P—R—E—SS—URE P-OIN--T M—AN,” raising her index finger up, “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,” and down “zzzzzzzzzzzz.”

I studied her face, gauged the seriousness in her eyes, and took off running.